


Five things that never happened to Chester Bennington

by Trash



Category: Linkin Park
Genre: F/M, Infidelity, Miscarriage, Written in 2007, car crashes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2018-03-22 22:26:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3745774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trash/pseuds/Trash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Foxtrot unicorn charlie kilo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five things that never happened to Chester Bennington

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://graffitidec-fic.livejournal.com/62512.html#cutid1)

**1\. Rehabilitation or; My first ABC**

They keep you in hospital after the crash. You should be in prison. Drunk driving, a baggie of cocaine in the glove compartment of the car you totalled. But your being paralysed from the waist down, your not being able to do anything well; that’s worse punishment than any prison.

Physiotherapy is all about getting you to hold a pen. That’s what they make you do the first time you go there. It’s not even a pen, it’s a crayon. Because when you woke up and found out you’d never walk again you threatened to kill yourself. 

So now you have a crayon which sticks to the still healing burns on the palm of your hand and a circle of paper.

“All we’re going to do,” the therapist says as if this is some big team effort, “is try and write your name, okay?”

You can barely clutch the crayon with you left hand. You bite your lip in concentration, bring the dead weight of your right arm up to lie lifelessly on your little circle of paper, holding it in place.

Your left hand, it won’t move the way you want it to. The ‘C’ you try and write comes out backwards and you snap the crayon accidentally.

“That’s okay,” the therapist says, hurrying forward with another thick crayon. “Let’s try again.”

You scrawl backwards letter ‘C’s for an hour. The blisters on your palm burst and you shake your head, defeated.

**2\. Liar liar or; ignorance is bliss.**

Somebody calls your house every day and when you answer they hang up.

Then later she will answer it. Work, she says, some story they want me to follow up.

It’s bullshit and you both know it.

And the baby cradled inside of her, that might not even be yours but you’d rather not know.

So you just kiss her cheek, “Okay,” you say with a smile. “Have a good day at work.”

When she leaves you star sixty nine. 

Your best friend Mike, that’s his number. But he never calls the house. You tell yourself it’s just a mistake. You don’t trust technology. 

**3\. A pocket full of posies or; we all fall down.**

Your cell phone rings loudly disturbing everybody in the room. The seminar is about as exciting as watching paint dry anyway so they’re probably glad of the distraction. You answer it as you climb over chairs to get out of the room. “Hello?”

“Chester Bennington?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m calling about Samantha.”

Miscarriage. You can imagine the kind-hearted nurses clasping her hands and asking ‘is there anyone you’d like us to call?’

Fuck work. Fuck advertising strategies and the fact that you walking out now could cost you your job. 

When you get to the hospital she is in a ward with at least seven other beds in it, all with the curtains drawn. Behind one of them you can hear Mike’s voice, low and concerned, “At least you don’t have to get an abortion now,” he says, “at least there won’t be any paternity tests or whatever.”

You pull back the curtain and he’s in a chair right next to her bed, her hand in his. She’s pale, a tiny ghost in the bed. You strangle the bouquet of posies in your hand, petals and leaves fluttering slowly to the floor. 

Mike doesn’t even look at you. Sam murmurs, “Chester…”

You don’t throw the flowers down they just fall from your hand. And you don’t storm away, you just leave quietly.

**4\. The American dream or; a gram of coke, sitting on the wall.**

You have that song, ten green bottles, that counting down song stuck in your head. You have Sam and Mike holding hands stuck in your head. You just can’t seem to…you just can’t stop…

Vodka. Beer. A bottle of wine her mom got you for Christmas but you never drank because you fucking hate wine. But it washes away the bitter taste in your mouth that is probably betrayal. Is it really betrayal, though, when you knew all about it from the start?

You put the cork back in the bottle of wine and disappear upstairs. The back of the closet where Sam never goes is your stash, drugs you promise you’ll never touch again. But what is a promise if it isn’t made to be broken?

The plan is to drive up to Hollywood to hang out with Brad. Brad is as deep into drugs as you used to be. But you got clean because Sam said “Let’s get married. Let’s start a family!”

Lock the coke in the glove compartment, lie the bottle of wine on the passenger seat.

Drive away.

**5\. Rehabilitation reprise or; foxtrot, unicorn, Charlie, kilo.**

Neither of them visit you. Ever. Brad comes down one day but security kick him out. Anybody visibly under the influence of drugs is not permitted in the hospital, they say.

And you say, does that go for the patients too?

Once your blisters heal it’s easier to write your backwards letter ‘C’ followed by a shaky capital ‘H’. 

If your child had been a girl she had wanted to call it Christine. If it was a boy, Charlie.

You grip your crayon so tight it snaps in three places. And the therapist shuffles over with another for you, and a helpful smile.

This time you try your hardest. You concentrate on the words until your head hurts. Your hand aches from the awkward angle you’re holding the crayon at. 

The therapist takes your paper from you when you’re done and smiles at you, then looks at the paper. Frowns disapprovingly.

In bright red letters, with a backwards ‘C’ and a lowercase ‘F’.

FUCK YOU.


End file.
